


pure gold

by myrosebudboy



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-21
Updated: 2016-03-21
Packaged: 2018-05-28 04:12:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6314728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrosebudboy/pseuds/myrosebudboy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU is the chemical symbol for gold, and also stands for Alternate Universe. this is dedicated to every AU carry on tumblr ask blog whose events i have had the pleasure of being caught up in, and every crazy AU snowbaz ficwriters and artists have come up with. these were pretty much inspired by all of you guys combined, so credits go to all of you - you guys rock xx</p>
            </blockquote>





	pure gold

The forest goes up in flames, and Simon drops to his knees in front of Baz, clutching his shoulders, their faces only inches apart. The flames are crackling and trees are bursting into flame and the world is so, so, hot. Baz’s eyes are glinting in the firelight. Simon’s vision is tunnelling - the only thing he can focus on as the world burns is the boy right in front of him.

“Simon…” Baz’s voice is a whisper.

Simon leans forward and presses their lips together, quickly, desperately.

Baz’s mouth is so cold, and the world is so hot.

-

“You play the violin?”

Baz narrows his eyes at the student who’s just come in, bow still hovering over his violin. “Who are you?”

The boy steps into the empty practice room. “Simon Snow,” he says, lips quirking up at the corners. “I just transferred here.”

Ah. Scholarship.

_He must be really good._

Curiosity overtakes Baz’s instincts to tell Simon to go away, and he asks, “What do you play?”

Simon smiles again, and Baz feels his heart twinge a little. “Piano. Wish I could play the violin, though.”

Baz sets his violin down. “It’s not too difficult.” He reconsiders. “Well, okay, it is, but it’s worth it.”

Simon’s still grinning, but a little sheepish now. “I tried, once.” He shakes his head. “Sounded like a dying cat. I thought I’d killed something.”

“I could teach you,” Baz blurts out.

Simon’s eyes light up. “Really? I feel like you’ll be regretting that soon.”

“Believe me, if I regret it, I’ll let you know.” Baz tilts his head. “Deal?”

“I don’t even know your name.”

“Basilton Pitch, but no one calls me that. I’m Baz.”

Simon looks at him, then offers his hand. “Deal.”

Baz takes his hand, and they shake on it.

-

The ballroom is huge, all pale marble and gilded gold details, and the chandeliers sparkle high above them, almost too bright to look at. Shoes click against the floor and dresses swish, and Baz stands silently by the wall, shoulders back, chin carefully tilted at just enough of an angle to appear calm and powerful. Intimidating.

He can’t take it, a few minutes in. Social gatherings have never been his thing, even though other people say he flourishes in them. (All an act, of course.)

He turns to his adviser, standing silently beside him, watching the room. “I would like a moment alone, Dev. I will be outside, in the garden.”

Dev looks torn. “Your Highness, you know you should be conversing with other guests. Especially,” he lowers his voice, “Lady Agatha.”

Baz nearly rolls his eyes before he catches himself.

“Dev, I have known you since we were children. I hope I do not have to order you out of the way.”

Dev grumbles, then steps aside. “Yes, Your Highness, but let it be known that I tried.”

Baz strides purposefully towards the door, keeping close to the walls so as to not attract too much unwanted attention, and murmurs to one of the attendants near the door. The men standing at attention pull a smaller set of doors open, and he nods in thanks, heading straight for the garden’s entrance.

He’s walking among the pristine lines of foliage, head down, deep in thought, when a cough makes him look up, and his eyes lock on a face utterly familiar, but at the same time, utterly strange.

The moonlight cuts across the grounds, and he hopes the panic is not clear in his eyes. _Princes do not panic, Baz, get it together._

He inclines his head, extends his hand. “Prince Simon. It is a pleasure to meet you.”

The prince takes his hand, grips it firmly. “Prince Basilton. I’ve heard many great things about you.”

“You as well,” Baz returns, but his head is clouded by the fact that his hand is tingling, and wishing fervently that the prince hadn’t let go. Focus. He turns to the young woman beside the prince, and bows. “Lady Agatha. It is my honour to meet you.”

She puts out a hand, and he takes it to plant a light kiss on the back of her palm. (Custom. He wouldn’t do it otherwise.)

“I will not delay you any longer,” he says, but the prince cuts him off.

“Do stay. It would be a missed opportunity to not talk. It is only once a year the kingdoms meet, after all, and I have not seen you before.”

Lady Agatha gives a respectful curtsey, her hand slipping from the crook of Prince Simon’s elbow to daintily hover above her skirts. “I believe I should take my leave.”

They are not lying, it seems, for Baz knows that she is, quite simply, gorgeous. But he cannot bring himself to be moved. (Another flaw for his father to be furious over. But not now.) And he finds that he does not mind in the slightest if she leaves.

Instead, he says, “Please, do not leave on my account.”

She tilts her head towards him, and her eyes glimmer like diamond in the dim light, sharp intelligence clear in their depths, although they vanish when she dips her head again. “I do not mind, Your Highness, though I thank you for your offer.”

Both princes bow to her, and she sweeps away, back towards the castle. And they are alone in the stillness of the night.

“How has your kingdom fared in the cold winter?” Prince Simon asks, voice soft. Baz finds himself watching every movement of his face, absorbing it all in. _He has freckles._ It sends a shiver down his spine when he realises the prince is doing the same thing.

(This is a dangerous question, he knows. But the fog in his mind refuses to clear.)

“Good,” he breathes.

Careful, careful.

Prince Simon’s gaze doesn’t break from his.

“Good.”

-

Once upon a time, a faerie was too curious, and ventured out too often, right to the edges of fey territory. To where the land flattened out, and where the stars shone, too many to count.

Once upon a time, a siren was too inquisitive, and explored too often, the currents of imagination sweeping him further and further each night. To where the land rose up in a wide arc, like a wave frozen at the peak of its crest.

Once upon a time, a faerie wandered too far, and once upon a time, a siren swam too far. And they met, where the land touches the sea, where the waves meet the stars.

The siren did not sing, and the faerie did not trick. They watched each other, carefully, silently, mapping each other like unfamiliar places they had never been to before. One night, two nights, three nights, four.

Then, on the fifth night, the faerie skimmed the waves at the edges of the shore, and the siren swam in as far as he dared. They still watched each other, the siren memorising the sharp sparkle of the moon on the faerie’s wings and in his eyes, and the faerie capturing every deceivingly pretty glint of each scale on the siren’s tail.

The faerie spoke first, and the siren thought of wind and the crunch of leaves in autumn, and the hard shimmer of icicles in the winter sun.

“Baz,” he said, and he watched the siren carefully. “My name is Baz.”

And then the siren spoke, and the faerie felt waves and storms, and strong currents that smashed against jagged rocks.

“Simon.”

They did not speak again, but they did not leave until daybreak came, and when the faerie once more skimmed the waves when the sky had darkened and the stars were out, he was not surprised to find the siren there, watching and waiting in the silent night.

-

 _“Gryffindor.”_ Baz hisses as he passes by a head of bronze curls in the Great Hall.

Simon sneers. “ _Ravenclaw._ ” 

(He can see Penny rolling her eyes to his right. There aren’t many people at the table yet - it’s too early. He’s glad for that, at least.)

“My house is playing against yours today, you know?”

Simon raises an eyebrow. “Oh, goodness, no, I didn’t. Thank you for informing me, _Captain_.”

Baz snorts. “Be careful you don’t break your leg out there, Snow.” He pauses. “Again.”

“I hope you break yours blocking a goal,” Simon blurts defensively, then realises what he’s just said.

It’s too late. Baz is already smirking. “Why, thank you-”

“Oh, shut up.”

“I’ll bet you that we win.” Baz’s smile is distractingly handsome, and Simon mentally slaps himself.

“Oh yeah? I think we’ll kick your ass.”

Baz seems to decide something. “If Ravenclaw wins, you go with me to Hogsmeade this Saturday.”

Simon splutters. “I-”

“See you out there, Snow. Maybe you could break an arm this time. Change the entertainment up a little.” And he’s gone in a swish of robes, striding towards the Ravenclaw table.

Simon turns to Penny. “What just happened?”

Penny looks highly satisfied with herself. “ _He’s a Keeper._ ”

She bursts into laughter as Simon’s ears turn crimson.

-

They’re connected in every universe, across all the galaxies, red threads of fate intertwining again and again.

Simon and Baz. Baz and Simon.

It was always going to end this way.


End file.
